Sick Day

All around us,

everyone’s moving towards something;

the hurried lunch is made hurried,

the leftover breakfast softens under sink water for a day;

the laundry is piled, unfolded—

they rush out the door

running to beat the bell.

The dogs with their wide, brown, roaming eyes

lay in beds looking around big, silent houses.

 

Meanwhile,

I am sitting here,

depositing Cheerios into my mouth,

the underfoot dog is waiting for something to drop.

One child at school, one too young, and the other home sick.

We are watching the shadows of the sun move around the room and ignite the dust.

I take my daughter’s temperature,

her watery eyes and reddened cheeks lean into my shoulder.

My youngest and I find the corners of a puzzle whose pieces come together easily

on a day like today.

 

Later, I will help my sick child outside to the hammock

and let the sun do the work of her tired body for a bit.

We will read and rest and squint into the sky.

 

But for now,

I let the Cheerios fall for the dog—

the little circles hitting the kitchen floor softly,

meaning everything.

 

Cutting Nails

Once every week,

always the night before school started, a Sunday,

she would line them up like toy soldiers

and brandish the sharp little cutters

too small for her arthritic knuckles.

 

The finger on her left hand where her wedding ring was permanently stuck

(and no longer necessary)

was bent like a timeworn back that hates to straighten

when she waved for them to stand still and stay upright

until she could examine the assemblage of dirt.

 

They hoped for just the right amount of filth

underneath their nails:

too much meant they hadn’t washed;

not enough meant they needed to work harder.

 

And then with a whoosh, her heavy fingers would zip through

ten

twenty

thirty

forty

fifty

sixty seventy eighty extremities

all of different shapes and sizes

and with similar amounts of loam,

determining them to be somewhat clean

and agreeably punctilious.

 

When they were done,

one by one she would look them in the eyes

and give their rears a push

that sent them flying towards the bath

to wash the country off their bodies

until it started to collect again,

as soon as they got out.

 

The woman with the bent fingers—

my grandmother—

would then gather her thoughts and sit down for five minutes

to do her own nails with a smile on her face,

examining the thick raised veins and ridges of callous

until it was time to keep on with the chores

and put the clippers away.

Marriage

When I see you coming down the road,

tires spinning and spitting out snow;

the high cottonwoods hefting their thick arms to wave

and the neighbors twisting their necks to watch the silver dust fly,

I forget the distance between us;

the jackrabbit and his burrow and the cold, white field in-between;

the horse pacing the line of fence connecting

she and the kind blanket inside.

 

Then I picture you,

moving through the sable light

on a high plateau of mountain scree in the cold,

your resolute lips turning blue until you can get to me;

 

hoping you will always find me

and that I will always keep you warm…

 

Minus 18

Yesterday

he stuffed the dark unvisited corners of his attic with more insulation

and when it started to snow, he reveled in the fine mist of shadows

between the house and barn

where the light would catch a coyote later on.

 

Then he watched

the dry, rivulet circles her hastened tires made

before the tread-lines and ridges were filled with the storm;

he warmed his warm-enough hands near the blowing air

of the pellet stove

out of habit

 

and  kept hoping she was coming back.

Winter Trees

Cold Barn at Night

Winter Night